horror is other people!

some thoughts on the "horror" of existence as portrayed by literature/film

this references waiting for godot and synecdoche, new york, which were two things we read/watched in a literature & existentialism course i took :). i spent a lot of that class time thinking about elements of horror in our existence and how scary it is to be out of body, to have no control. reminds me a bit of this lyric from anti-hero:

Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby
And I'm a monster on the hill
Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city
Pierced through the heart, but never killed

and because this is a feeling i’ve been grappling with for a while, i thought it was topical to write about. think also of the truman show or that short story in sum by david eagleman where everyone was a perfect actor and you’re the one character that’s just… a bit wrong! a bit off!!. i’ve thought about this since 1st grade, when I seemed to be the only kid with the messy desk and inability to focus in class, and it’s never really left since.

and obviously the body horror!! the infinitude of the future!! as i turn 20 today, i feel like i must deal with these things so much more head-on than i already have. so much to think about, so much to yap about, perhaps a future post…. anyways, here ya go:

Existentialist texts frequently evoke horror as a means of confronting the human condition. This horror arises from the inescapable realities of existence: the loss of control, the grotesque and inevitable decay of the body, and the disorienting infinity of time. Works like Synecdoche, New York and Waiting for Godot use these themes to explore the futility of human efforts to impose order or meaning on an absurd and indifferent universe. In these texts, horror emerges not from external threats but from internal and existential sources—the betrayal of the body, the cyclical stagnancy of time, and the failure of the self to act with agency in a chaotic world. Through vivid imagery and disquieting situations, Kaufman and Beckett dramatize how the human desire for control and understanding only intensifies the terror of life’s unpredictability and inevitabilities. Ultimately, both works suggest that existential horror is not an anomaly but a fundamental aspect of the human experience, forcing individuals to confront their mortality, alienation, and the absurdity of their existence.

Confusion and illegibility arise in moments where the body or mind fails to cooperate—when a limb refuses to move or when spoken words come out entirely different from what was intended. This visceral horror of being unable to engage effectively with the world, coupled with an incomplete understanding of one’s circumstances, fosters a profound sense of fear and alienation. Characters whose motivations cannot be legibly understood, like Abraham or the Joker, destabilize others’ sense of control. Beyond just the control of the emotion, there is a greater emphasis when it is a failure to control the physical world around you. Caden’s obsessive attempts to control his artistic production in Synecdoche, New York (e.g., directing his play for 17+ years) parallel his inability to control his body, which seems to be breaking down. Kaufman emphasizes this with repeated shots of him minutely controlling the actors' dialogue and body language, then immediately cutting to him in the hospital and being unable to convince the doctors to treat him. This failure underscores the futility of human attempts to assert mastery over life: “I have to remember to breathe. It’s a new thing.” He even loses his directorial control —the project spirals beyond his grasp, and as he directs the actress playing his wife, her interpretation overwrites his reality. Humans are wired to seek agency over their lives, decisions, and environments. This loss of control and understanding—whether over one’s body, mind, or fate—creates a visceral fear of helplessness. And this is only magnified when characters desperately try to maintain any vestiges of control, only for their efforts to unravel. In Waiting for Godot, Eragon retains very little memory of his past, and this confusion makes him want to escape reality and enter his dream world. The duo’s repeated attempts to leave or change their circumstances constantly fail, and their dialogue often circles back to inaction and uncertainty.

“Vladimir: Pull up your trousers.
Eragon: I can’t,”

…the phrase “I can’t” is repeated many times as characters are increasingly unable to perform basic functions (Beckett 57). As the characters in the play age in Act II, there is a palpable pity for Pozzo as he is not the demanding person he was in Act 1. Beckett emphasizes this by removing the primary senses: Pozzo cannot see, and Lucky cannot speak with his shorter rope. The senses are fundamental to the human experience, and without them, Pozzo cannot understand the world at all and falls constantly. And, because of his over-control in Act 1, Lucky has been driven to be completely mute, almost as a sort of defiance of control: without being able to vocalize what he sees, Lucky is no replacement for Pozzo’s lost sense of sight. This shift highlights the fragility of power and everyone’s inevitable decline as characters are rendered helpless. Beckett and Kaufman use this loss of agency to deepen the horror of feeling a world slipping beyond comprehension and control.

caden (synecdoche, new york) looking over a sea of notes for his actors

The loss of control comes from the inevitable decay of the body and the visceral disgust it evokes at its natural functions. Body horror and disgust are natural extensions of decay, as they focus on the grotesque transformation of the body and its betrayal of our expectations of stability and normalcy. This breakdown of the body is not abstract—it’s visible, tactile, and unavoidable, forcing the audience or characters to confront their mortality. The grotesque aspect of body horror lies in the distortion or violation of the body’s normal state. When Caden is unable to get an erection during sex with Holly or is unable to swallow, having to explain, “[I’m] Salivating. I have to concentrate. Biofeedback training,” Holly responds with disgust: “It's really disturbing” (Synecdoche, New York). Yet, later on in the movie, when Holly has lost her youth, she pleads to Caden: “Please, Caden. Everything is falling apart. I miss you. There are problems at home. I'm worthless. I'm fat. What am I going to do? Nobody laughs at my jokes the way you did” (Synecdoche, New York). Caden is horrified by his death and tells his actors that this is part of the motivation behind his play, telling them, “Death comes faster than you think” (Synecdoche, New York, 52:20). In Waiting for Godot, the characters remain physically static while their minds and bodies decay over time. The tree has lost much of its life, a sort of physical desolation. Pozzo comments on the exceedingly short time people have: “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams in an instant, then it’s night once more.” (Beckett, 80). Even just textually, the unflinching depiction of such things customarily seen as disgusting—the bathrooms at Caden’s warehouse or Eragon and Vladimir discussing how suicide might lead to an erection—is a common theme as a sort of undermining of social norms. Sammy follows Caden around and is seemingly oblivious to the repulsion of someone else’s stool and comments, “I’ve never seen your shit gray,” to which Caden responds with, “It’s new.” Beyond just the uncanniness of that breaking of boundaries, it is yet another reminder of Caden’s worsening health issues and decay.

While there is an unavoidable sense of death within human life, everything else feels infinite. Time within various films and texts accelerates and compresses, with decades passing without clear demarcation in Synecdoche, New York. This disjointed timeline mirrors Caden’s existential confusion, such as the actor’s comment, “It’s been seventeen years,” delivered as though it were a mere moment. The film’s circular narrative (such as beginning and ending at 7:45 AM) underscores the repetitive nature of existence, and even despite his monumental efforts to figure out his play title, seemingly an allegory for what to do with his life, Caden achieves no resolution and traps himself in a loop of futility. Notably, as the warehouse of actors seems to go on in perpetuity, the outside world is dying with what seems like constant riots and radioactive poisoning (even the German word for decay, “ZERFALL.” is graffitied on various walls). While this plays into the idea of inevitable decay discussed previously, it emphasizes the impossible infinity of this play-universe. Only Sammy can escape it because he ends things in his own hands: “This is where we part ways. This is authentic. This is what the real Caden would do. This is what real love looks like” (Synecdoche, New York). Caden has lost touch with reality and found himself in this infinity that turns things, once again, uncontrollable and disorienting. Cyclical time can create feelings of entrapment, while accelerated time evokes fear of impermanence and the inability to hold onto anything meaningful. Especially with Caden’s fear of his mortality, 17 years passing without achieving his artistic goals evokes existential horror, as it seems as if he has lost his life to a “futile” pursuit. In Waiting for Godot, the endlessness of time is perhaps even more intense, with an undetermined amount of time passing between the two acts. The play’s repetitive structure—dialogues and actions repeated with only slight variations—creates a sense of time as cyclical, where nothing progresses as characters are stuck in an eternal present. Beyond that, because of the duo’s lack of agency, they are unable to escape because of a supposed mission: “Estragon: Let’s go. Vladimir: We can’t. Estragon: Why not? Vladimir: We’re waiting for Godot” (Beckett, 6). The characters’ awareness of time passing without meaning also adds to their dread as they directly note that “time has stopped” in response to Pozzo talking about his schedule (Beckett, 28).

Why are these versions of horror so prevalent in existentialist texts? For one, horror intensifies the absurd by placing characters in situations that expose the lack of logic or fairness in existence. This terrifying realization of the unpredictability of life is central to existential horror. This absurdity can lead to an estrangement individuals feel from themselves, others, and the world, especially when characters recognize that traditional structures and social norms fail to provide the certainty or connection they need for fulfillment. In works of literature and film, artists can externalize their arguments about the alienation of existence through creating grotesque or uncanny experiences or imagery. When Pozzo says “the blind have no notion of time… the things of time are hidden from them too,” Beckett is equating the physical loss of a sense into an almost cautionary tale for the audience to remember to keep track of the pasing of time (Beckett, 77). Horror also puts characters in extreme situations where they must act despite overwhelming uncertainty and serves as a stimulus against inaction. In a world inherently inconsistent and confusing, individuals become responsible for creating their own meaning, which leads to a liberating and also terrifying freedom. In addition, by making the unspeakable explicit through very direct imagery or descriptions, these authors can force acknowledgment of life’s uncomfortable realities.

While these forms of horror seem unavoidable, individuals can respond to them in different ways. Caden’s inability to reconcile his fear of death leads to his entrapment in an endless artistic loop. In contrast, Sammy’s act of ending things himself suggests a form of existential rebellion, embracing authenticity (“real love”) over prolonged suffering. On the other hand, Vladimir and Estragon’s endurance can either represent a sort of blindness that Pozzo blames or a sort of existential resilience as they continue waiting and engaging with each other despite their bleak reality. These works invite readers to consider how one might face existential horror: through passive resignation, creative defiance, or stoic endurance.

Horror is a powerful tool in existentialist writing because it captures the emotional and visceral impact of existentialist ideas. Through various modalities of abstract fears—such as confusion, death, or inescapability of time—it forces characters and audiences to confront their own vulnerabilities. And through tying it with universal experiences that audiences can relate to (such as disgust of the body or fear of death) sugest that horror is not an anomaly seen in fiction but an inherent part of human existence. The final lines of Synecdoche, New York, frame this artistic portrayal of horror perfectly:

“As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time.”